


Dear John

by TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:50:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot/pseuds/TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A certain Miss Irene Adler leaves another gift...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear John

**Author's Note:**

> Chanelling a bit of Bret Easton-Ellis for this Valentine's day piece. Dedicated to several lovely ladies over at fanfiction.net who will understand just why there are so many 'inside jokes'. ;-)

Not bad, not bad.

Sherlock had made it to Thursday without starting a fire, (unintentional or otherwise) bringing home body parts from the morgue, (Molly, of all people, had told him off for treating it like a sweet shop) or upsetting anyone. (Well... that was impossible, but there had been no physical violence, law suits or death threats in four whole days.)

Best of all, it was Valentine's day and John had a date.

Of course there was no milk, but sometimes he took what he could get.

It was that morning, mug in hand, newspaper under arm, wearing a rather festive sweater in deference to the snow, he saw it.

The box on the mantlepiece.

_She had wanted him to recognise it. She had chosen the same handmade wrapping paper as last time. It was a perfect match for her Chanel rouge coco crème lipstick (always in her favourite shade- 'Gabriel'. A sinner could sure as hell look like a saint.)_

_Those strong fingernails smoothing the sheets out? Chanel le vernis, shade 'Suspicion', almost as red as the welts they raised on pale flesh._

_And the adornment, well, the texture of the soft rope was almost a perfect match for those Derek Rose black silk boxers, classic British styling wrapped in luxury with an open fly (in a neat little prusik knot before she tied off the ends- it had become her fast favourite since it came in particularly handy restraining a well-known celebrity's wife.)_

Oh no. No, no, no. Sherlock could not go through this again.

John paused for about a tenth of a second before he grabbed the box and tore upstairs to his room (skipping the eighth step because it was guaranteed to creak and alert a certain consulting detective.)

And if, once he had thrown himself into his chair, he loosened the knot- tried to loosen the knot- ripped off the knot and peeked inside, he could satisfy himself that it was absolutely out of concern for his friend and not morbid curiosity.

_She had chosen this pair because the worn leather was soft to the touch and felt like sliding into the expensive upholstery of a Chevy Camaro on a warm summer's day. (Everyone assumed it would be cherry red, but if she was going to drive she wanted to make the biggest impact on the road. Her resprayed Hot Magenta was a much bolder fashion statement.)_

_The brushed steel was reminiscent of the light slicking across a Boeing 767-33A private jet (with an interior of chestnut and gold) landing in Paris at dusk._

_Or maybe more like the glint of an all-steel hollow edge santoku kitchen knife, wielded with precision in the kitchens of Dorsia in New York. Chilli oil optional._

Handcuffs. Bloody handcuffs.

The detective and the woman were both a force of nature. They were both someone to be reckoned with. Someone powerful. John could almost understand the infatuation, but did she really think she would ever win him over?

John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. Hoping this little incident didn't escalate until he was left dealing with day after day of, well, Sherlock, he flipped the lid back on and saw it. The tag he had missed. 'Dear John...'

_'…no need to feel threatened. I'm half a world away doing things you've never even dreamed of with people you have. If I can't enjoy him, at least someone can. P.S, don't forget the riding crop.'_

_She had signed with a flourish of her Parker Sonnet (gold nib for comfort and precision) on Winsor Newton smooth surface 220gsm paper and ghosted it with Chanel No. 5, classic and elegant._

_Her grin was hungry._

_Perfection._

"Oh my god, is she saying what I think she's... I can't believe that she would... I'm not gay!" John muttered in despair, bolting up as he heard Sherlock's voice drifting up from the kitchen.

"Theoretically, John, if one had set the fire extinguisher on fire, how would one then extinguish said fire? I only ask because..."

Oh, it was going to be a long day. And no, last time he checked, he still wasn't gay, but he did have that date tonight...

Clearing his throat, he stuffed the box under his pillow and caught himself grinning guiltily in the mirror. _Happy Valentine's day, Irene._

"Coming, Sherlock..."


End file.
